Douglas Niles - Feathered Dragon

She had found her army, and now the driders’ vengeance could begin.

Erixitl looked at Halloran. She said nothing, but the joy radiating from her face was a great tonic for him. All around them the camp of the Mazticans was breaking up as the refugees once again started their southward trek.

He looked upward, at the soaring eagle, and shook his head in wonder at the miracle that had apparently befallen him.

“You told me all along Poshtli was alive,” Hal admitted. “I shouldn’t have doubted your faith.”

“My faith.” Erix smiled wryly. “My faith in Poshtli was one thing; why can’t I find the same faith in Qotal?” She looked at the bright cloak that swung from her shoulders, touching it with her long brown fingers. “Perhaps there is a lesson for me in the return of our friend. Perhaps if I showed the same belief in the god who has chosen me…” She did not conclude the thought.

“Something must have brought him out of that mountain alive,” Hal observed. “What’s more likely than the power of Qotal?”

She looked at him seriously. “You’re right, you know. I have to find the hope and the strength to keep searching. Poshtli could be the sign that brings me to that point. After all these days of running and fleeing, maybe there is a goal for us and for our child.”

“The eagle will show us the way,” said Hal, going to Erix and taking her hands. “But after all this is done, we’ll go where we please. We won’t run from anything, and we won’t chase anything-just go and live where we want to.”

She leaned against him and pulled his body close to hers. The slight roundness of her belly was a firm bond between them. “Where should we go, then?” she asked. “Where do you want to go?”

Hal was silent for a moment. “Someday I’d like to go back to the Sword Coast-with you. Would like to see my world?”

“I… don’t know,” she replied honestly. “It frightens me, the thought of going so far away So much frightens me now!” He could hear her voice tighten and could feel the tension in her body

He held her for a while, not speaking, and they stood together among the departing folk. His arms wrapped and protected her, and in the warmth of his embrace, once again she grew strong.

Thousands of miles away, eastward across the Trackless Sea, the sun warmed a long coastline. Many nations thrived here, trading and building and warring among themselves. These lands, places with names such as Calimshan, Amn, Waterdeep, Tethyr, Moonshae, and the rest, had developed a certain smugness over the centuries.

Were they not the highest centers of culture and learning-indeed, of civilization itself-to be found among the Realms? True, the recent advances of nomadic horsemen, raging from the great central steppe, might give this smugness a short jolt. And of course the great oriental nations of Kara-Tur offered certain amenities not to be found here on the Sword Coast…

But still, the center of everything that mattered couldn’t be declared to be elsewhere, at least not by any rational individual.

The serene merchant princes of the Council of Amn considered themselves to be very rational indeed. Masters of all within their borders and influential over important matters without, the six anonymous men and women who ruled the mighty southern kingdom expected obedience and performance from those in their service.

Amn, a nation of traders, shippers, buyers, and sellers, controlled its empire not by the might of its swords nor the range of its catapults, but by the power of its gold. Governed by the six princes, all of whom kept their identities carefully concealed, Amnite trade extended across all the known Realms and worked its way toward unknown reaches as well.

These princes had invested a great deal into the expedition of Captain-General Cordell and his Golden Legion. More than a year had passed since the departure of that legion on its quest for gold over the western seas, and as yet no profits had found their way to the princely coffers.

Now the princes, each meticulously masked and robed, met in private session to discuss the disappearance of Cordell and-more significantly-the potential loss of their investment. The domed council chamber was darkened as usual, a further aid to the masquerade.

At last the golden doors opened softly and a courtier entered.

“Don Vaez is here,” said the silken-dressed attendant.

“At last,” rasped one of the princes from beneath his-or, perhaps, her-dark mask. “Send him in.”

In moments, a tall figure passed through the door, removing his broad-brimmed hat with its ostrich-feather plume in a sweeping bow. The man stood erect again, a thin smile playing about his lips. He was smooth-shaven, with long blond, almost white locks that fell about his shoulders.

“Ah, Don Vaez, you may do us a great service,” murmured another of the princes.

“As always, I exist to serve,” offered Vaez, with another courtly bow.

“Indeed.” The prince’s sexless voice dripped with irony. “You know, of course, of the Golden Legion’s expedition to the west?”

“Naturally. A great promise lay upon it. I trust there has not been… trouble?”

“For long months, we received steady messages through the Temple of Helm here in Amn. The Bishou, chief cleric of the mission, provided good reports. It seems that our expectations of gold were met, even exceeded, in this land Cordell had claimed for us.”

Don Vaez’s eyes gleamed, but he remained silent.

“Several months ago, however, these messages abruptly ceased,” offered another prince, in a higher but still subtly masked voice. “We have reason to expect the worst.”

“That explains many things,” replied the adventurer. None of the merchants made any response, so Don Vaez continued. “Two dozen carracks gathering in Murann, companies of harquebus, crossbow, and horse. Even some of the veterans of Cordell’s legion, those that did not sail with him to the west. The rumors that Amn has decided it needs an army…”

One of the princes raised a cautious hand. “We do not need an army, not here. But quite possibly such a force will be required in order to see a proper and deserved return on our investment.”

“Do you suspect that Cordell has betrayed you?” inquired Don Vaez sympathetically. He now knew why he had been summoned to appear before the council. He knew, and he was well pleased.

“We do not know. Perhaps he ran into greater difficulties than he anticipated; he took but five hundred men. Now we will send nearly three times that number on his trail. We know, through the temple, what course he sailed, even where he made landfall.”

The air seemed to grow heavy in the room for the space of a brief pause. Don Vaez waited.

“We want you to lead the expedition after him,” a prince finally offered. “We send you after our gold, and to learn Cordell’s fate. If he lives, you are to bring him back-in chains, if necessary.”

Another of the princes raised a golden bell, shaking it slightly to elicit a musical tinkling. In moments, the golden doors opened to reveal the courtier who had admitted Don Vaez.

“Summon Pryat Devane,” ordered the prince curtly.

In a few moments, the cleric entered, bowing first to the

princes and then to Don Vaez. The adventurer studied the short pryat. The clean-shaven priest wore a close-fitting cap of steel and a loose robe of fine silk. His hands were cloaked in the silver gauntlets of Helm.

“Pryat Devane was Bishou Domincus’s closest aide,” explained the prince.

“You’re the one who maintained contact with Domincus?” asked Don Vaez.

“Indeed, my lord. Every few weeks, through the conduit of our faith, the Bishou informed me of the progress of the mission. They made good progress for a time. They penetrated to the heart of the continent, to a city that was overflowing with gold. Then… silence.”